Gabriella reminded me everyday why I was single as fuck: women were irritating. So irritating that at only thirty-three years old I already had strands of gray in my fade. I named them after the five women I'd had serious relationships with. Gabriella was no lover, was only my student, but she'd landed her name on top of my head.
She recently turned eighteen and was nowhere near graduating. She still had tenth grade classes, hadn't passed not one in three years. I'd done everything as her counselor from notes sent home to recommending tutoring to offering to put her in credit recovery. All of my efforts were met with silence, indifference, no's. What made this shit aggravating was the fact she was actually smart! I'd done research on her academic past, looking for a forgotten IEP or something, only to find she made honor roll every year from first grade to tenth grade. Had unbelievable potential. Then this drastic decline happened. It wasn't even a decline; it was a stop.
I tried visiting her home for a face-to-face with her parents. Her pristine mother sitting with me in their pristine living room gave me no explanation, only promised to make her daughter do better, to get her to graduation day, but nothing changed.
I was done with the situation, even though I promised I'd never give up on a student since a teacher's persistence got me out of the streets and into my books. Middle school me had the desire to be something better, a desire that could be seen. In Gabriella, however, there was no such thing.
She came into my office with the note I'd given her Algebra I teacher. Sat down.
"Hello, Mr. Hendley," she mumbled when I stared at her expectantly. Yeah, she was rude, too. Wouldn't say nothing to you unless you made her.
"Hi, Gabriella. I brought you in here to tell you you're being dropped from Kingston High."
No response from her.
"That means—"
"I know what it means, Mr. Hendley. I guess this is good riddance for both of us."
"It's not good riddance. I still want to help you, but you won't let me. This is obviously what you want."
She snickered.
"What's funny?"
"You saying this is what I want. You don't know shit about what I want."
"Then tell me."
She laughed again, louder. It wasn't a sound of humor; it was more like spite. The laugh of a she-devil.
"Take a wild guess."
The fuck kind of answer was that? I felt my head getting hot. Another platinum thread was no doubt sprouting.
"I'm not a mind reader. If there's something I'm not doing or your teachers aren't doing that you feel you need to have academic success, you need to let me know. I'll see to it that it's done for you."
"Can I see your arm?"
It took me a minute to process her request. "What is that going to do?"
"It goes all the way up, doesn't it? A sleeve?"
I looked at my left forearm, the tattoo that could be seen there with my sleeve rolled below my elbow.
"Yes, it's a sleeve," I said, heaving a tired breath.
"I want to see it."
I was going to decline but figured there was no harm. I unbutton my button-down, taking my left arm out.
"That's nice."
I snorted, amused. "Thirteen hours in a chair and your response is 'that's nice'?"
